"My husband is a premature ejaculator."
That's all she needs to say.
He pushes her against the wall, hands roaming over her supple backside before slipping up her dress. Grey dress, white cotton knickers. Her husband doesn't let her wear pretty clothes, afraid they'll attract a man who can do what he can't. And the last time she wore sexy knickers he creamed himself, wheezing and moaning, before he could even drop his pants.
But the man next door sees past the drab, baggy clothing to the hourglass figure beneath, and he has what it takes to claim it.
There's an ocean of lust in those plain, bland panties, unmet needs scorching a hole through the cotton. Her mound grinds against the palm of his hand before he pulls the garment aside and slips a finger into her hungry slit. She whimpers into his mouth.
There are so many other ways to please a woman. Finger her, eat her, rub the clit. There are toys, creams, tricks, medicines. But her hubby refused them all, too proud to consider them, a pride as intense as it was baseless; his way is to mount her for a ten-second ride, thirty on a good day, take his own pleasure then fall asleep. And so she seeks satisfaction from another, wrapping her arms around him and smushing her heavy tits against his wide chest. As she does, his fingers find the clitoris and reduce her to a whimpering wreck.
Her kisses run along his neck, turning to bites as her desire is unleashed. In the empty house her moans rise and echo, noises the walls have never heard her make in company. For three years of marriage, she has taken care of her own pleasure. But that's about to change.
